Fenton's Quest by M. E. Braddon

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bawled her question into his ear. He scratched his head in a meditativeway for some moments.

"I've heard the name times and often," he said, "though I never set eyesupon the gentleman. William Carley has been bailiff at the Grange thesetwenty years, and I don't believe as the owner has ever come nigh theplace in all that time. Let me see,--it's a common name enough, thoughthe gentleman is a baronight. Forster--that's it--Sir something Forster."

"Sir David?" cried Gilbert.

"You've hit it, sir. Sir David Forster--that's the gentleman."

Sir David Forster! He had little doubt after this that the strangers atthe Grange had been Marian and her husband. Treachery, blackest treacherysomewhere. He had questioned Sir David, and had received his positiveassurance that this man Holbrook was unknown to him; and now, againstthat there was the fact that the baronet was the owner of a place inHampshire, to be taken in conjunction with that other fact that a placein Hampshire had been lent to Mr. Holbrook by a friend. At the very firsthe had been inclined to believe that Marian's lover must needs be one ofthe worthless bachelor crew with which the baronet was accustomed tosurround himself. He had only abandoned that notion after his interviewwith Sir David Forster; and now it seemed that the baronet haddeliberately lied to him. It was, of course, just possible that he was ona false scent after all, and that it was to some other part of thecountry Mr. Holbrook had brought his bride; but such a coincidenceseemed, at the least, highly improbable. There was no occasion for him toremain in doubt very long, however. At the Grange he must needs be ableto obtain more definite information.

CHAPTER XVI.

FACE TO FACE.

Gilbert Fenton left the homely little post-office and turned into thelane leading to Golder's-green--a way which may have been pleasant enoughin summer, but had no especial charm at this time. The level expanse ofbare ploughed fields on each side of the narrow road had a dreary look;the hedges were low and thin; a tall elm, with all its lower limbsmercilessly shorn, uplifted its topmost branches to the dull gray sky,here and there, like some transformed prophetess raising her gaunt armsin appeal or malediction; an occasional five-barred gate marked theentrance to some by-road to the farm; on one side of the way a deepblack-looking ditch lay under the scanty shelter of the low hedge, andhinted at possible water rats to the traveller from cities who mighthappen to entertain a fastidious aversion to such small deer.

The mile seemed a very long one to Gilbert Fenton. Since his knowledge ofSir David Forster's ownership of the house to which he was going, hisimpatience was redoubled. He had a feverish eagerness to come at thebottom of this mystery. That Sir David had lied to him, he had verylittle doubt. Whoever this Mr. Holbrook was, it was more likely that heshould have escaped the notice of Lidford people as a guest at Heatherlythan under any other circumstances. At Heatherly it was such a commonthing for strangers to come and go, that even the rustic gossips had leftoff taking much interest in the movements of the Baronet or his guests.There was one thought that flashed suddenly into Gilbert's mind duringthat gloomy walk under the lowering gray sky.

If this man Holbrook were indeed a friend of Sir David Forster's, howdid it happen that John Saltram had failed to recognize his name? Theintimacy between Forster and Saltram was of such old standing, that itseemed scarcely likely that any acquaintance of Sir David's could becompletely unknown to the other. Were they all united in treacheryagainst him? Had his chosen friend--the man he loved so well--been ableto enlighten him, and had he coldly withheld his knowledge? No, he toldhimself, that was not possible. Sir David Forster might be the falsest,most unprincipled of mankind; but he could not believe John Saltramcapable of baseness, or even coldness, towards him.

He was at the end of his journey by this time. The Grange stood in frontof him--a great rambling building, with many gables, gray lichen-grownwalls, and quaint old diamond-paned casements in the upper stories.Below, the windows were larger, and had an Elizabethan look, with patchesof stained glass here and there. The house stood back from the road, witha spacious old-fashioned garden before it; a garden with flower-beds of aDutch design, sheltered from adverse winds by dense hedges of yew andholly; a pleasant old garden enough, one could fancy, in summer weather.The flower-beds were for the most part empty now, and the only flowers tobe seen were pale faded-looking chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daises. Thegarden was surrounded by a high wall, and Gilbert contemplated it firstthrough the rusty scroll-work of a tall iron gate, surmounted by the armsand monogram of the original owner. On one side of the house there was avast pile of building, comprising stables and coach-houses, barns andgranaries, arranged in a quadrangle. The gate leading into thisquadrangle was open, and Gilbert saw the cattle standing knee-deep in astraw-yard.

He rang a bell, which had a hoarse rusty sound, as if it had not beenrung very often of late; and after he had waited for some minutes, andrung a second time, a countrified-looking woman emerged from the house,and came slowly along the wide moss-grown gravel-walk towards him. Shestared at him with the broad open stare of rusticity, and did not makeany attempt to open the gate, but stood with a great key in her hand,waiting for Gilbert to speak.

"This is Sir David Forster's house, I believe," he said.

"Yes, sir, it be; but Sir David doesn't live here."

"I know that. You have some lodgers here--a lady and gentleman calledHolbrook."

He plunged at once at this assertion, as the easiest way of arriving atthe truth. He had a conviction that this solitary farm-house was theplace to which his unknown rival had brought Marian.

"Yes, sir," the woman answered, still staring at him in her Blow stupidway. "Mrs. Holbrook is here, but Mr. Holbrook is away up in London. Didyou wish to see the lady?"

Gilbert's heart gave a great throb. She was here, close to him! In thenext minute he would be face to face with her, with that one woman whomhe loved, and must continue to love, until the end of his life.

"Yes," he said eagerly, "I wish to see her. You can take me to her atonce. I am an old friend. There is no occasion to carry in my name."

He had scarcely thought of seeing Marian until this moment. It was herhusband he had come to seek; it was with him that his reckoning was to bemade; and any meeting between Marian and himself was more likely to provea hindrance to this reckoning than otherwise. But the temptation to seizethe chance of seeing her again was too much for him. Whatever hazardthere might be to his scheme of vengeance in such an encounter slippedout of his mind before the thought of looking once more at that idolisedface, of hearing the loved voice once again. The woman hesitated for afew moments, telling Gilbert that Mrs. Holbrook never had visitors, andshe did not know whether she would like to see him; but on hisadministering half-a-crown through the scroll-work of the gate, she putthe key in the lock and admitted him. He followed her along themoss-grown path to a wide wooden porch, over which the ivy hung like avoluminous curtain, and through a half-glass door into a low roomy hall,with massive dark oak-beams across the ceiling, and a broad staircase ofecclesiastical aspect leading to a gallery above. The house had evidentlybeen a place of considerable grandeur and importance in days gone by; buteverything in it bore traces of neglect and decay. The hall was dark andcold, the wide fire-place empty, the iron dogs red with rust. Some sacksof grain were stored in one corner, a rough carpenter's bench stood underone of the mullioned windows, and some garden-seeds were spread out todry in another.

The woman opened a low door at the end of this hall, and ushered Gilbertinto a sitting-room with three windows looking out upon a Dutchbowling-green, a quadrangle of smooth turf shut in by tall hedges ofholly. The room was empty, and the visitor had ample leisure to examineit while the woman went to seek Mrs. Holbrook.

It was a large room with a low ceiling, and a capacious old-fashionedfire-place, where a rather scanty fire was burning in a dull slow way.The furniture was old and worm-eaten,--furniture that had once beenhandsome,--and was of a ponderous fashion that defied time. There was amassive oaken cabinet on one side of the room, a walnut-wood bureau withbrass handles on the other. A comfortable looking sofa, of an antiquateddesign, with chintz-covered cushions, had been wheeled near thefire-place; and close beside it there was a small table with an open deskupon it, and some papers scattered loosely about. There were a few autumnflowers in a homely vase upon the centre table, and a work-basket withsome slippers, in Berlin wool work, unfinished.

Gilbert Fenton contemplated all these things with supreme tenderness. Itwas here that Marian had lived for so many months--alone most likely forthe greater part of the time. He had a fixed idea that the man who hadstolen his treasure was some dissipated worldling, altogether unworthy sosacred a trust. The room had a look of loneliness to him. He could fancythe long solitary hours in this remote seclusion.

He had to wait for some little time, walking slowly up and down; veryeager for the interview that was to come, yet with a consciousness thathis fate would seem only so much the darker to him afterwards, when hehad to turn his back upon this place, with perhaps no hope of ever seeingMarian again. At last there came a light footfall; the door was opened,and his lost love came into the room.

Gilbert Fenton was standing near the fire-place, with his back to thelight. For the first few moments it was evident that Marian did notrecognize him. She came towards him slowly, with a wondering look in herface, and then stopped suddenly with a faint cry of surprise.

"You here!" she exclaimed. "O, how did you find this place? Why did youcome?"

She clasped her hands, looking at him in a half-piteous way that wentstraight to his heart. What he had told Mrs. Branston was quite true. Itwas not in him to be angry with this girl. Whatever bitterness theremight have been in his mind until this moment fled away at sight of her.His heart had no room for any feeling but tenderness and pity.

"Did you imagine that I should rest until I had seen you once more,Marian? Did you suppose I should submit to lose you without hearing fromyour own lips why I have been so unfortunate?"

"I did not think you would waste time or thought upon any one so wickedas I have been towards you," she answered slowly, standing before himwith a pale sad face and downcast eyes. "I fancied that whatever love youhad ever felt for me--and I know how well you did love me--would perishin a moment when you found how basely I had acted. I hoped that it wouldbe so."

"No, Marian; love like mine does not perish so easily as that. O, mylove, my love, why did you forsake me so cruelly? What had I done tomerit your desertion of me?"

"What had you done! You had only been too good to me. I know that thereis no excuse for my sin. I have prayed that you and I might never meetagain. What can I say? From first to last I have been wrong. From firstto last I have acted weakly and wickedly. I was flattered and gratifiedby your affection for me; and when I found that my dear uncle had set hisheart upon our marriage, I yielded against my own better reason, whichwarned me that I did not love you as you deserved to be loved. Then for along time I was blind to the truth. I did not examine my own heart. I wasquite able to estimate all your noble qualities, and I fancied that Ishould be very happy as your wife. But you must remember that at thelast, when you were leaving England, I asked you to release me, and toldyou that it would be happier for both of us to be free."

"Why was that, Marian?"

"Because at that last moment I began to doubt my own heart."

"Had there been any other influence at work, Marian? Had you seen yourhusband, Mr. Holbrook, at that time?" She blushed crimson, and theslender hands nervously clasped and unclasped themselves before shespoke.

"I cannot answer that question," she said at last.

"That is quite as good as saying 'yes.' You had seen this man; he hadcome between us already. O, Marian, Marian, why were you not morecandid?"

"Because I was weak and foolish. I could not bear to make you unhappy. O,believe me, Gilbert, I had no thought of falsehood at that time. I fullymeant to be true to my promise, come what might."

"I am quite willing to believe that," he answered gently. "I believe thatyou acted from first to last under the influence of a stronger will thanyour own. You can see that I feel no resentment against you. I come toyou in sorrow, not in anger. But I want to understand how this thing cameto pass. Why was it that you never wrote to me to tell me the completechange in your feelings?"

"It was thought better not," Marian faltered, after a pause.

"By you?"

"No; by my husband."

"And you suffered him to dictate to you in that matter. Against your ownsense of right?"

"I loved him," she answered simply. "I have never refused to obey him inanything. I will own that I thought it would be better to write and tellyou the truth; but my husband thought otherwise. He wished our marriageto remain a secret from you, and from all the world for some time tocome. He had his own reasons for that--reasons I was bound to respect. Icannot think how you came to discover this out-of-the-world place."

"I have taken some trouble to find you, Marian, and it is a hard thingto find you the wife of another; but the bitterness of it must be borne.I do not want to reproach you when I tell you that my life has beenbroken utterly by this blow. I want you to believe in my truth andhonour, to trust me now as you might have trusted me when you firstdiscovered that you could not love me. Since I am not to be your husband,let me be the next best thing--your friend. The day may come in which,you will have need of an honest man's friendship."

She shook her head sadly.

"You are very good," she said; "but there is no possibility at friendshipbetween you and me. If you will only say that you can forgive me for thegreat wrong I have done you, there will be a heavy burden lifted from myheart; and whatever you may think now, I cannot doubt that in the futureyou will find some one far better worthy of your love than ever I couldhave been."

"That is the stereotyped form of consolation, Marian, a man is alwaysreferred to--that shadowy and perfect creature who is to appear in thefuture, and heal all his wounds. There will be no such after-love for me.I staked all when I played the great game; and have lost all. But whycannot I be your friend, Marian?"

"Can you forgive my husband for his part in the wrong that has been doneyou? Can you be his friend, knowing what he has done?"

"No!" Gilbert answered fiercely between his set teeth. "I can forgiveyour weakness, but not the man's treachery."

"Then you can never be mine," Marian said firmly.

"Remember, I am not talking of a common friendship, a friendship of dailyassociation. I offer myself to you as refuge in the hour of trouble, acounsellor in perplexity, a brother always waiting in the background ofyour life to protect or serve you. Of course, it is quite possible youmay never have need of protection or service--God knows, I wish you allhappiness--but there are not many lives quite free from trouble, and theday may come in which you will want a friend."

"If it ever does, I will remember your goodness."

Gilbert looked scrutinisingly at Marian Holbrook as she stood before himwith the cold gray light of the sunless day full upon her face. He wantedto read the story of her life in that beautiful face, if it werepossible. He wanted to know whether she was happy with the man who hadstolen her from him.

She was very pale, but that might be fairly attributed to the agitationcaused by his presence. Gilbert fancied that there was a careworn look inher face, and that her beauty had faded a little since those peacefuldays at Lidford, when these two had wasted the summer hours in idle talkunder the walnut trees in the Captain's garden. She was dressed veryplainly in black. There was no coquettish knot of ribbon at her throat;no girlish trinkets dangled at her waist--all those little graces andembellishments of costume which seem natural to a woman whose life ishappy, were wanting in her toilet to-day; and slight as these indicationswere, Gilbert did not overlook them.

Did he really wish her to be happy--happy with the rival he so fiercelyhated? He had said as much; and in saying so, he had believed that he wasspeaking the truth. But he was only human; and it is just possible that,tenderly as he still loved this girl, he may have been hardly capable oftaking pleasure in the thought of her happiness.

"I want you to tell me about your husband, Marian," he said after apause; "who and what he is."

"Why should I do that?" she asked, looking at him with a steady, almostdefiant, expression. "You have said that you will never forgive him. Whatinterest can you possibly feel in his affairs?"

"I am interested in him upon your account."

"I cannot tell you anything about him. I do not know how you could havediscovered even his name."

"I learned that at Wygrove, where I first heard of your marriage."

"Did you go to Wygrove, then?"

"Yes; I have told you that I spared no pains to find you. Nor shall Ispare any pains to discover the history of the man who has wronged me. Itwould be wiser for you to be frank with me, Marian. Rely upon it that Ishall sooner or later learn the secret underlying this treacherousbusiness."

"You profess to be my friend, and yet are avowedly say husband's enemy.Why cannot you be truly generous, Gilbert, and pardon him? Believe me, hewas not willingly treacherous; it was his fate to do you this wrong."

"A poor excuse for a man, Marian. No, my charity will not stretch farenough for that. But I do not come to you quite on a selfish errand, tospeak solely of my own wrongs. I have something to tell you of realimportance to yourself."

"What is that?"

Gilbert Fenton described the result of his first advertisement, and hisacquaintance with Jacob Nowell.

"It is my impression that this old man is rich, Marian; and there islittle doubt that he would leave all he possesses to you, if you went tohim at once."

"I do not care very much about money for my own sake," she answered withrather a mournful smile; "but we are not rich, and I should be glad ofanything that would improve my husband's position. I should like to seemy grandfather: I stand so much alone in the world that it would be verysweet to me to find a near relation."

"Your husband must surely have seen Mr. Nowell's advertisement," Gilbertsaid after a pause. "It was odd that he did not tell you about it--thathe did not wish you to reply to it."

"The advertisement may have escaped him, or he may have looked upon it asa trap to discover our retreat," Marian answered frankly.

"I cannot understand the motive for such secrecy."

"There is no occasion that you should understand it. Every life has itsown mystery--its peculiar perplexities. When I married my husband, I wasprepared to share all his troubles. I have been obedient to him ineverything."

"And has your marriage brought you happiness, Marian?"

"I love my husband," she answered with a plaintive reproachful look, asif there had been a kind of cruelty in his straight question. "I do notsuppose that there is such a thing as perfect happiness in the world."

The answer was enough for Gilbert Fenton. It told him that this girl'slife was not all sunshine.

He had not the heart to push his inquiries farther. He felt that he hadno right to remain any longer, when in all probability his presence was atorture to the girl who had injured him.

"I will not prolong my visit, Marian," he said regretfully.

"It was altogether a foolish one, perhaps; but I wanted so much to seeyou once more, to hear some explanation of your conduct from your ownlips."

"My conduct can admit of neither explanation nor justification," shereplied humbly. "I know how wickedly I have acted. Believe me, Gilbert, Iam quite conscious of my unworthiness, and how little right I have toexpect your forgiveness."

"It is my weakness, rather than my merit, not to be able to cherish anyangry feeling against you, Marian. Mine has been a slavish kind of love.I suppose that sort of thing never is successful. Women have aninstinctive contempt for men who love them with such blind unreasonableidolatry."

"I do not know how that may be; but I know that I have always respectedand esteemed you," she answered in her gentle pleading way.

"I am grateful to you even for so much as that. And now I suppose I mustsay good-bye--rather a hard word to say under the circumstances. Heavenknows when you and I may meet again."

"Won't you stop and take some luncheon? I dine early when my husband isaway; it saves trouble to the people of the house. The bailiff's daughteralways dines with me when I am alone; but I don't suppose you will mindsitting down with her. She is a good girl, and very fond of me."

"I would sit down to dinner with a chimney-sweep, if he were a favouriteof yours, Marian--or Mrs. Holbrook; I suppose I must call you that now."

After this they talked of Captain Sedgewick for a little, and the tearscame to Marian's eyes as she spoke of that generous and faithfulprotector. While they were talking thus, the door was opened, and abright-faced countrified-looking girl appeared carrying a tray. She wasdressed in a simple pretty fashion, a little above her station as abailiff's daughter, and had altogether rather a superior look, in spiteof her rusticity, Gilbert thought.

She was quite at her ease in his presence, laying the cloth briskly andcleverly, and chattering all the time.

"I am sure I'm very glad any visitor should come to see Mrs. Holbrook,"she said; "for she has had a sad lonely time of it ever since she hasbeen here, poor dear. There are not many young married women would put upwith such a life."

"Nelly," Marian exclaimed reproachfully, "you know that I have hadnothing to put up with--that I have been quite happy here."

"Ah, it's all very well to say that, Mrs. Holbrook; but I know better. Iknow how many lonely days you've spent, so downhearted that you couldscarcely speak or look up from your book, and that only an excuse forfretting.--If you're a friend of Mr. Holbrook's, you might tell him asmuch, sir; that he's killing his pretty young wife by inches, by leavingher so often alone in this dreary place. Goodness knows, it isn't that Iwant to get rid of her. I like her so much that I sha'n't know what to dowith myself when she's gone. But I love her too well not to speak thetruth when I see a chance of its getting to the right ears."

"You are a very foolish girl," Marian exclaimed; "and I am extremelyangry with you for talking such utter nonsense about me. I may have beena little out of spirits sometimes in my husband's absence; but that isall. I shall begin to think that you really do want to get rid of me,Nell, say what you will."

"That's a pretty thing, when you know that I love you as dearly as if youwere my sister; to say nothing of father, who makes a profit by yourbeing here, and would be fine and angry with me for interfering. No, Mrs.Holbrook; it's your own happiness I'm thinking of, and nothing else. AndI do say that it's a shame for a pretty young woman like you to be shutup in a lonely old farm-house while your husband is away, enjoyinghimself goodness knows where; and when he is here, I can't see that he'svery good company, considering that he spends the best part of histime--"

The girl stopped abruptly, warned by a look from Marian. Gilbert saw thislook, and wondered what revelation of Mr. Holbrook's habits the bailiff'sdaughter had been upon the point of making; he was so eager to learnsomething of this man, and had been so completely baffled in all hisendeavours hitherto.

"I will not have my affairs talked about in this foolish way, EllenCarley," Marian said resolutely.

And then they all three sat down to the dinner-table. The dishes werebrought in by the woman who had admitted Gilbert. The dinner wasexcellent after a simple fashion, and very nicely served; but for Mr.Fenton the barn-door fowl and home-cured ham might as well have been thegrass which the philosopher believed the French people might learn toeat. He was conscious of nothing but the one fact that he was in Marian'ssociety for perhaps the last time in his life. He wondered at himself nota little for the weakness which made it so sweet to him to be with her.

The moment came at last in which he must needs take his leave, having nopossible excuse for remaining any longer.

"Good-bye, Marian," he said. "I suppose we are never likely to meetagain."

"One never knows what may happen; but I think it is far better we shouldnot meet, for many reasons."

"What am I to tell your grandfather when I see him?"

"That I will come to him as soon as I can get my husband's permission todo so."

"I should not think there would be any difficulty about that, when heknows that this relationship is likely to bring you fortune."

"I daresay not."

"And if you come to London to see Mr. Nowell, there will be some chanceof our meeting again."

"What good can come of that?"

"Not much to me, I daresay. It would be a desperate, melancholy kind ofpleasure. Anything is better than the idea of losing sight of you forever--of leaving this room to-day never to look upon your face again."

He wrote Jacob Nowell's address upon one of his own cards, and gave it toMarian; and then prepared to take his departure. He had an idea that thebailiff's daughter would conduct him to the gate, and that he would beable to make some inquiries about Mr. Holbrook on his way. It is possiblethat Marian guessed his intentions in this respect; for she offered togo with him to the gate herself; and he could not with any decencyrefuse to be so honoured.

They went through the hall together, where all was as still and lifelessas it had been when he arrived, and walked slowly side by side along thebroad garden-path in utter silence. At the gate Gilbert stopped suddenly,and gave Marian his hand.

"My darling," he said, "I forgive you with all my heart; and I will prayfor your happiness."

"Will you try to forgive my husband also?" she asked in her plaintivebeseeching way.

"I do not know what I am capable of in that direction. I promise that,for your sake, I will not attempt to do him any injury."

"God bless you for that promise! I have so dreaded the chance of ameeting between you two. It has often been the thought of that which hasmade me unhappy when that faithful girl, Nelly, has noticed my lowspirits. You have removed a great weight from my mind."

"And you will trust me better after that promise?"

"Yes; I will trust you as you deserve to be trusted, with all my heart."

"And now, good-bye. It is a hard word for me to say; but I must notdetain you here in the cold."

He bent his head, and pressed his lips upon the slender little hand whichheld the key of the gate. In the next moment he was outside that talliron barrier; and it seemed to him as if he were leaving Marian in aprison. The garden, with its poor pale scentless autumn flowers, had adreary look under the dull gray sky. He thought of the big empty house,with its faded traces of vanished splendour, and of Marian's lonely lifein it, with unspeakable pain. How different from the sunny home which hehad dreamed of in the days gone by--the happy domestic life which he hadfancied they two might lead!

"And she loves this man well enough to endure the dullest existence forhis sake," he said to himself as he turned his back at last upon the talliron gate, having lingered there for some minutes after Marian hadre-entered the house. "She could forget all our plans for the future athis bidding."

He thought of this with a jealous pang, and with all his old angeragainst his unknown rival. Moved by an impulse of love and pity forMarian, he had promised that this man should suffer no injury at hishands; and, having so pledged himself, he must needs keep his word. Butthere were certain savage feelings and primitive instincts in his breastnot easily to be vanquished; and he felt that now he had bound himself tokeep the peace in relation to Mr. Holbrook, it would be well that thosetwo should not meet.

"But I will have some explanation from Sir David Forster as to that liehe told me," he said to himself; "and I will question John Saltram aboutthis man Holbrook."

John Saltram--John Holbrook. An idea flashed into his brain that seemedto set it on fire. What if John Saltram and John Holbrook were one! Whatif the bosom friend whom he had introduced to his betrothed had playedthe traitor, and stolen her from him! In the next moment he put thesupposition away from him, indignant with himself for being capable ofthinking such a thing, even for an instant. Of all the men upon earth whocould have done him this wrong, John Saltram was the last he could havebelieved guilty. Yet the thought recurred to him many times after thiswith a foolish tiresome persistence; and he found himself going over thecircumstances of his friend's acquaintance with Marian, his hastydeparture from Lidford, his return there later during Sir David Forster'sillness. Let him consider these facts as closely as he might, there wasno especial element of suspicion in them. There might have been a hundredreasons for that hurried journey to London--nay, the very fact itselfargued against the supposition that Mr. Saltram had fallen in love withhis friend's plighted wife.

And now, the purpose of his life being so far achieved, Gilbert Fentonrode back to Winchester next day, restored his horse to its proprietor,and went on to London by an evening train.

CHAPTER XVII.

MISS CARLEY'S ADMIRERS.

There were times in which Marian Holbrook's life would have been utterlylonely but for the companionship of Ellen Carley. This warm-heartedoutspoken country girl had taken a fancy to Mr. Holbrook's beautiful wifefrom the hour of her arrival at the Grange, one cheerless March evening,and had attached herself to Marian from that moment with unalterableaffection and fidelity. The girl's own life at the Grange had been lonelyenough, except during the brief summer months, when the roomy old housewas now and then enlivened a little by the advent of a lodger,--somestray angler in search of a secluded trout stream, or an invalid whowanted quiet and fresh air. But in none of these strangers had Ellen evertaken much interest. They had come and gone, and made very littleimpression upon her mind, though she had helped to make their sojournpleasant in her own brisk cheery way.

She was twenty-one years of age, very bright-looking, if not absolutelypretty, with dark expressive eyes, a rosy brunette complexion, and verywhite teeth. The nose belonged to the inferior order of pug or snub; theforehead was low and broad, with dark-brown hair rippling over it--hairwhich seemed always wanting to escape from its neat arrangement into amultitude of mutinous curls. She was altogether a young person whom theadmirers of the soubrette style of beauty might have found very charming;and, secluded as her life at the Grange had been, she had already morethan one admirer.

She used to relate her love affairs to Marian Holbrook in the quietsummer evenings, as the two sat under an old cedar in the meadow nearestthe house--a meadow which had been a lawn in the days when the Grange wasin the occupation of great folks; and was divided from a broadterrace-walk at the back of the house by a dry grass-grown moat, withsteep sloping banks, upon which there was a wealth of primroses andviolets in the early spring. Ellen Carley told Mrs. Holbrook of heradmirers, and received sage advice from that experienced young matron,who by-and-by confessed to her humble companion the error of her owngirlhood, and how she had jilted the most devoted and generous lover thatever a woman could boast of.

For some months--for the bright honeymoon period of her weddedlife--Marian had been completely happy in that out-of-the-world region.It is not to be supposed that she had done so great a wrong to GilbertFenton except under the influence of a great love, or the dominion of anature powerful enough to subjugate her own. Both these influences hadbeen at work. Too late she had discovered that she had never really lovedGilbert Fenton; that the calm grateful liking which she had told herselfmust needs be the sole version of the grand passion whereof her naturewas capable, had been only the tamest, most ordinary kind of friendshipafter all, and that in the depths of her soul there was a capacity for anutterly different attachment--a love which was founded on neither respectnor gratitude, but which sprang into life in a moment, fatal andall-absorbing from its birth.

Heaven knows she had struggled bravely against this luckless passion, hadresisted long and steadily the assiduous pursuit, the passionatehalf-despairing pleading, of her lover, who would not be driven away, andwho invented all kinds of expedients for seeing her, however difficultthe business might be, or however resolutely she might endeavour to avoidhim. It was only after her uncle's death, when her mind was weakened byexcessive grief, that her strong determination to remain faithful to herabsent betrothed had at last given way before the force of those tenderpassionate prayers, and she had consented to the hasty secret marriagewhich her lover had proposed. Her consent once given, not a moment hadbeen lost. The business had been hurried on with the utmost eagerness bythe impetuous lover, who would give her as little opportunity as possibleof changing her mind, and who had obtained complete mastery of her willfrom the moment in which she promised to be his wife.

She loved him with all the unselfish devotion of which her nature wascapable; and no thought of the years to come, or of what her future lifemight be with this man, of whose character and circumstances she knew sovery little, ever troubled her. Having sacrificed her fidelity to GilbertFenton, she held all other sacrifices light as air--never considered themat all, in fact. When did a generous romantic girl of nineteen ever stopto calculate the chances of the future, or fear to encounter poverty andtrouble with the man she loved? To Marian this man was henceforth all theworld. It was not that he was handsomer, or better, or in any obvious waysuperior to Gilbert Fenton. It was only that he was just the one man ableto win her heart. That mysterious attraction which reason can neverreduce to rule, which knows no law of precedent or experience, reignedhere in full force. It is just possible that the desperate circumstancesof the attachment, the passionate pursuit of the lover, not to be checkedby any obstacle, may have had an influence upon the girl's mind. Therewas a romance in such love as this that had not existed in Mr. Fenton'sstraightforward wooing; and Marian was too young to be quite proofagainst the subtle charm of a secret, romantic, despairing passion.

For some time she was very happy; and the remote farm-house, with itsold-fashioned gardens and fair stretch of meadow-land beyond them, whereall shade and beauty had not yet been sacrificed to the interests ofagriculture, seemed to her in those halcyon days a kind of earthlyparadise. She endured her husband's occasional absence from this ruralhome with perfect patience. These absences were rare and brief at first,but afterwards grew longer and more frequent. Nor did she ever sigh forany brighter or gayer life than this which they led together at theGrange. In him were the beginning and end of her hopes and dreams; and solong as he was pleased and contented, she was completely happy. It wasonly when a change came in him--very slight at first, but still obviousto his wife's tender watchful eyes--that her own happiness was clouded.That change told her that whatever he might be to her, she was no longerall the world to him. He loved her still, no doubt; but the brightholiday-time of his love was over, and his wife's presence had no longerthe power to charm away every dreary thought. He was a man in whosedisposition there was a lurking vein of melancholy--a kind of chronicdiscontent very common to men of whom it has been said that they might dogreat things in the world, and who have succeeded in doing nothing.

It is not to be supposed that Mr. Holbrook intended to keep his wife shutaway from the world in a lonely farm-house all her life. The place suitedhim very well for the present; the apartments at the Grange, and theservices of Mr. Carley and his dependents, had been put at his disposalby the owner of the estate, together with all farm and garden produce.Existence here therefore cost him very little; his chief expenses were ingifts to the bailiff and his underlings, which he bestowed with a liberalhand. His plans for the future were as yet altogether vague andunsettled. He had thoughts of emigration, of beginning life afresh in anew country--anything to escape from the perplexities that surrounded himhere; and he had his reasons for keeping his wife secluded. Nor did hisconscience disturb him much--he was a man who had his conscience in verygood training--as to the unfairness of this proceeding. Marian was happy,he told himself; and when time came for some change in the manner ofher existence, he doubted if the change would be for the better.

So the days and weeks and months had passed away, bringing little varietywith them, and none of what the world calls pleasure. Marian read andworked and rambled in the country lanes and meadows with Ellen Carley,and visited the poor people now and then, as she had been in the habit ofdoing at Lidford. She had not very much to give them, but gave all shecould; and she had a gentle sympathetic manner, which made her welcomeamongst them, most of all where there were children, for whom she hadalways a special attraction. The little ones clung to her and trustedher, looking up at her lovely face with spontaneous affection.

William Carley, the bailiff, was a big broad-shouldered man, with a heavyforbidding countenance, and a taciturn habit by no means calculated tosecure him a large circle of friends. His daughter and only child wasafraid of him; his wife had been afraid of him in her time, and had fadedslowly out of a life that had been very joyless, unawares, hiding herillness from him to the last, as if it had been a sort of offence againsthim to be ill. It was only when she was dying that the bailiff knew hewas going to lose her; and it must be confessed that he took the lossvery calmly.

Whatever natural grief he may have felt was carefully locked in his ownbreast. His underlings, the farm-labourers, found him a little more"grumpy" than usual, and his daughter scarcely dared open her lips to himfor a month after the funeral. But from that time forward Miss Carley,who was rather a spirited damsel, took a very different tone with herfather. She was not to be crushed and subdued into a mere submissiveshadow, as her mother had been. She had a way of speaking her mind on alloccasions which was by no means agreeable to the bailiff. If he dranktoo much overnight, she took care to tell him of it early next morning.If he went about slovenly and unshaven, her sharp tongue took notice ofthe fact. Yet with all this, she waited upon him, and provided for hiscomfort in a most dutiful manner. She saved his money by her dexterousmanagement of the household, and was in all practical matters a verytreasure among daughters. William Carley liked comfort, and liked moneystill better, and he was quite aware that his daughter was valuable tohim, though he was careful not to commit himself by any expression ofthat opinion.

He knew her value so well that he was jealously averse to the idea of hermarrying and leaving him alone at the Grange. When young Frank Randall,the lawyer's son, took to calling at the old house very often upon summerevenings, and by various signs and tokens showed himself smitten withEllen Carley, the bailiff treated the young man so rudely that he wasfain to cease from coming altogether, and to content himself with anoccasional chance meeting in the lane, when Ellen had business atCrosber, and walked there alone after tea. He would not have been aparticularly good match for any one, being only an articled clerk to hisfather, whose business in the little market-town of Malsham was by nomeans extensive; and William Carley spoke of him scornfully as a pauper.He was a tall good-looking young fellow, however, with a candid pleasantface and an agreeable manner; so Ellen was not a little angry with herfather for his rudeness, still more angry with him for his encouragementof her other admirer, a man called Stephen Whitelaw, who lived about amile from the Grange, and farmed his own land, an estate of some extentfor that part of the country.

"If you must marry," said the bailiff, "and it's what girls like you seemto be always thinking about, you can't do better than take up with StephWhitelaw. He's a warm man, Nell, and a wife of his will never want a mealof victuals or a good gown to her back. You'd better not waste yoursmiles and your civil words on a beggar like young Randall, who won'thave a home to take you to for these ten years to come--not then,perhaps--for there's not much to be made by law in Malsham now-a-days.And when his father dies--supposing he's accommodating enough to die in areasonable time, which it's ten to one he won't be--the young man willhave his mother and sisters to keep upon the business very likely, andthere'd be a nice look-out for you. Now, if you marry my old friendSteph, he can make you a lady."

This was a very long speech for Mr. Carley. It was grumbled out in shortspasmodic sentences between the slow whiffs of his pipe, as he sat by thefire in a little parlour off the hall, with his indefatigable daughter atwork at a table near him.

"Stephen Whitelaw had need be a gentleman himself before he could makeme a lady," Nelly answered, laughing. "I don't think fine clothes canmake gentlefolks; no, nor farming one's own land, either, though thatsounds well enough. I am not in any hurry to leave you, father, and I'mnot one of those girls who are always thinking of getting married; butcome what may, depend upon it, I shall never marry Mr. Whitelaw."

"Why not, pray?" the bailiff asked savagely.

Nelly shook out the shirt she had been repairing for her father, and thenbegan to fold it, shaking her head resolutely at the same time.

"Because I detest him," she said; "a mean, close, discontented creature,who can see no pleasure in life except money-making. I hate the verysight of his pale pinched face, father, and the sound of his hard shrillvoice. If I had to choose between the workhouse and marrying StephenWhitelaw, I'd choose the workhouse; yes, and scrub, and wash, and drudge,and toil there all my days, rather than be mistress of Wyncomb Farm."

"Well, upon my word," exclaimed the father, taking the pipe from hismouth, and staring aghast at his daughter in a stupor of indignantsurprise, "you're a pretty article; you're a nice piece of goods for aman to bring up and waste his substance upon--a piece of goods that willturn round upon one and refuse a man who farms his own land. Mind, hehasn't asked you yet, my lady; and never may, for aught I know."

"I hope he never will, father," Nelly answered quietly, unsubdued by thisoutburst of the bailiff's.

"If he does, and you don't snap at such a chance, you need never look fora sixpence from me; and you'd best make yourself scarce pretty soon intothe bargain. I'll have no such trumpery about my house."

"Very well, father; I daresay I can get my living somewhere else, withoutworking much harder than I do here."

This open opposition on the girl's part made William Carley only the moreobstinately bent upon that marriage, which seemed to him such a brilliantalliance, which opened up to him the prospect of a comfortable home forhis old age, where he might repose after his labours, and live upon thefat of the land without toil or care. He had a considerable contempt forthe owner of Wyncomb Farm, whom he thought a poor creature both as a manand a farmer; and he fancied that if his daughter married StephenWhitelaw, he might become the actual master of that profitable estate. Hecould twist such a fellow as Stephen round his fingers, he told himself,when invested with the authority of a father-in-law.

Mr. Whitelaw was a pale-faced little man of about five-and-forty years ofage; a man who had remained a bachelor to the surprise of hisneighbours, who fancied, perhaps, that the owner of a good house and acomfortable income was in a manner bound by his obligation to society totake to himself a partner with whom to share these advantages. He hadremained unmarried, giving no damsel ground for complaint by any delusiveattentions, and was supposed to have saved a good deal of money, and tobe about the richest man in those parts, with the exception of the landedgentry.

He was by no means an attractive person in this the prime of his manhood.He had a narrow mean-looking face, with sharp features, and a pale sicklycomplexion, which looked as if he had spent his life in some close Londonoffice rather than in the free sweet air of his native fields. His hairwas of a reddish tint, very sleek and straight, and always combed withextreme precision upon each side of his narrow forehead; and he hadscanty whiskers of the same unpopular hue, which he was in the habit ofsmoothing with a meditative air upon his sallow cheeks with the knobbyfingers of his bony hand. He was of a rather nervous temperament,inclined to silence, like his big burly friend, William Carley, and had adeprecating doubtful way of expressing his opinion at all times. In spiteof this humility of manner, however, he cherished a secret pride in hissuperior wealth, and was apt to remind his associates, upon occasion,that he could buy up any one of them without feeling the investment.

After having attained the discreet age of forty-five without being avictim to the tender passion, Mr. Whitelaw might reasonably have supposedhimself exempt from the weakness so common to mankind. But suchself-gratulation, had he indulged in it, would have been premature; forafter having been a visitor at the Grange, and boon-companion of thebailiff's for some ten years, it slowly dawned upon him that Ellen Carleywas a very pretty girl, and that he would have her for his wife, and noother. Her brisk off-hand manner had a kind of charm for his slowapathetic nature; her rosy brunette face, with its bright black eyes andflashing teeth, seemed to him the perfection of beauty. But he was not animpetuous lover. He took his time about the business, coming two or threetimes a week to smoke his pipe with William Carley, and paying Nelly someawkward blundering compliment now and then in his deliberate hesitatingway. He had supreme confidence in his own position and his money, and wastroubled by no doubt as to the ultimate success of his suit. It was truethat Nelly treated him in by no means an encouraging manner--was, indeed,positively uncivil to him at times; but this he supposed to be merefeminine coquetry; and it enhanced the attractions of the girl hedesigned to make his wife. As to her refusing him when the time came forhis proposal, he could not for a moment imagine such a thing possible. Itwas not in the nature of any woman to refuse to be mistress of Wyncomb,and to drive her own whitechapel cart--a comfortable hooded vehicle ofthe wagonette species, which was popular in those parts.

So Stephen Whitelaw took his time, contented to behold the object of hisaffection two or three evenings a week, and to gaze admiringly upon herbeauty as he smoked his pipe in the snug little oak-wainscoted parlour atthe Grange, while his passion grew day by day, until it did really becomea very absorbing feeling, second only to his love of money and WyncombFarm. These dull sluggish natures are capable of deeper passions than theworld gives them credit for; and are as slow to abandon an idea as theyare to entertain it.

It was Ellen Carley's delight to tell Marian of her trouble, and toprotest to this kind confidante again and again that no persuasion orthreats of her father's should ever induce her to marry StephenWhitelaw--which resolution Mrs. Holbrook fully approved. There was alittle gate opening from a broad green lane into one of the fields at theback of the Grange; and here sometimes of a summer evening they used tofind Frank Randall, who had ridden his father's white pony all the wayfrom Malsham for the sake of smoking his evening cigar on that particularspot. They used to find him seated there, smoking lazily, while the ponycropped the grass in the lane close at hand. He was always eager to doany little service for Mrs. Holbrook; to bring her books or anything elseshe wanted from Malsham--anything that might make an excuse for hiscoming again by appointment, and with the certainty of seeing EllenCarley. It was only natural that Marian should be inclined to protectthis simple love-affair, which offered her favourite a way of escape fromthe odious marriage that her father pressed upon her. The girl might haveto endure poverty as Frank Randall's wife; but that seemed a small thingin the eyes of Marian, compared with the horror of marrying thatpale-faced mean-looking little man, whom she had seen once or twicesitting by the fire in the oak parlour, with his small light-grey eyesfixed in a dull stare upon the bailiff's daughter.

CHAPTER XVIII.

JACOB NOWELL'S WILL.

At his usual hour, upon the evening after his arrival in London, GilbertFenton called at the silversmith's shop in Queen Anne's Court. He foundJacob Nowell weaker than when, he had seen him last, and with a strangeold look, as if extreme age had come upon him suddenly. He had beencompelled to call in a medical man, very much against his will; and thisgentleman had told him that his condition was a critical one, and that itwould be well for him to arrange his affairs quickly, and to hold himselfprepared for the worst.

He seemed to be slightly agitated when Gilbert told him that hisgranddaughter had been found.

"Will she come to me, do you think?" he asked.

"I have no doubt that she will do so, directly she hears how ill you havebeen. She was very much pleased at the idea of seeing you, and onlywaited for her husband's permission to come. But I don't suppose she willwait for that when she knows of your illness. I shall write to herimmediately."

"Do," Jacob Nowell said eagerly; "I want to see her before I die. You didnot meet the husband, then, I suppose?"

"No; Mr. Holbrook was not there."

He told Jacob Nowell all that it was possible for him to tell about hisinterview with Marian; and the old man seemed warmly interested in thesubject. Death was very near him, and the savings of the long drearyyears during which his joyless life had been devoted to money-making mustsoon pass into other hands. He wanted to know something of the person whowas to profit by his death; he wanted to be sure that when he was gonesome creature of his own flesh and blood would remember him kindly; notfor the sake of his money alone, but for something more than that.

"I shall make my will to-morrow," he said, before Gilbert left him. "Idon't mind owning to you that I have something considerable to bequeath;for I think I can trust you. And if I should die before my grandchildcomes to me, you will see that she has her rights, won't you? You willtake care that she is not cheated by her husband, or by any one else?"

"I shall hold it a sacred charge to protect her interests, so far as itis possible for me to do so."

"That's well. I shall make you one of the executors to my will, if you'veno objection."

"No. The executorship will bring me into collision with Mr. Holbrook, nodoubt; but I have resolved upon my line of conduct with regard to him,and I am prepared for whatever may happen. My chief desire now is to be areal friend to your granddaughter; for I believe she has need offriends."

The will was drawn up next day by an attorney of by no means spotlessreputation, who had often done business for Mr. Nowell in the past, andwho may have known a good deal about the origin of some of the silverwhich found its way to the old silversmith's stores. He was a gentlemanfrequently employed in the defence of those injured innocents who appearat the bar of the Old Bailey; and was not at all particular as to themerits of the cases he conducted. This gentleman embodied Mr. Nowell'sdesires with reference to the disposal of his worldly goods in a verysimple and straightforward manner. All that Jacob Nowell had to leave wasleft to his granddaughter, Marian Holbrook, for her own separate use andmaintenance, independent of any husband whatsoever.

This was clear enough. It was only when there came the question, which alawyer puts with such deadly calmness, as to what was to be done with themoney in the event of Marian Holbrook's dying intestate, that anyperplexity arose.

"Of course, if she has children, you'd like the money to go to them,"said Mr. Medler, the attorney; "that's clear enough, and had better beset out in your will. But suppose she should have no children, you'dscarcely like all you leave to go to her husband, who is quite a strangerto you, and who may be a scoundrel for aught you know."

"No; I certainly shouldn't much care about enriching this Holbrook."

"Of course not; to say nothing of the danger there would be in giving himso strong an interest in his wife's death. Not but what I daresay he'llcontrive to squander the greater part of the money during her lifetime.Is it all in hard cash?"

"No; there is some house-property at Islington, which pays a highinterest; and there are other freeholds."

"Then we might tie those up, giving Mrs. Holbrook only the income. It isessential to provide against possible villany or extravagance on the partof the husband. Women are so weak and helpless in these matters. And inthe event of your granddaughter dying without children, wouldn't yourather let the estate go to your son?"

"To him!" exclaimed Jacob Nowell. "I have sworn that I would not leavehim sixpence."

"That's a kind of oath which no man ever considers himself bound tokeep," said the lawyer in his most insinuating tone. "Remember, it's onlya remote contingency. The chances are that your granddaughter will have afamily to inherit this property, and that she will survive her father.And then, if we give her power to make a will, of course it's prettycertain that she'll leave everything to this husband of hers. But I don'tthink we ought to do that, Mr. Nowell. I think it would be a far wiserarrangement to give this young lady only a life interest in the realestate. That makes the husband a loser by her death, instead of apossible gainer to a large amount. And I consider that your son's namehas a right to come in here."

"I cannot acknowledge that he has any such right. His extravagance almostruined me when he was a young man; and his ingratitude would have brokenmy heart, if I had been weak enough to suffer myself to be crushed byit."

"Time works changes amongst the worst of us, Mr. Nowell, I daresay yourson has improved his habits in all these years and is heartily sorry forthe errors of his youth."

"Have you seen him, Medler?" the old man asked quickly.

"Seen your son lately? No; indeed, my dear sir, I had no notion that hewas in England."

The fact is, that Percival Nowell had called upon Mr. Medler more thanonce since his arrival in London; and had discussed with that gentlemanthe chances of his father's having made, or not made, a will, and thepossibility of the old man's being so far reconciled to him as to make awill in his favour. Percival Nowell had gone farther than this, and hadpromised the attorney a handsome percentage upon anything that his fathermight be induced to leave him by Mr. Medler's influence.

The discussion lasted for a long time; Mr. Medler pushing on, stage bystage, in the favour of his secret client, anxious to see whether JacobNowell might not be persuaded to allow his son's name to take the placeof his granddaughter, whom he had never seen, and who was really no morethan a stranger to him, the attorney took care to remind him. But on thispoint the old man was immovable. He would leave his money to Marian, andto no one else. He had no desire that his son should ever profit by thelabours and deprivations of all those joyless years in which his fortunehad been scraped together. It was only as the choice of the lesser evilthat he would consent to Percival's inheriting the property from hisdaughter, rather than it should fall into the hands of Mr. Holbrook. Thelawyer had hard work before he could bring his client to this point; buthe did at last succeed in doing so, and Percival Nowell's name waswritten in the will.

"I don't suppose Nowell will thank me much for what I've done, thoughI've had difficulty enough in doing it," Mr. Medler said to himself, ashe walked slowly homewards after this prolonged conference in QueenAnne's Court. "For of course the chances are ten to one against hissurviving his daughter. Still these young women sometimes go off thehooks in an unexpected way, and he _may_ come into the reversion."

There was only one satisfaction for the attorney, and that lay in thefact that this long, laborious interview had been all in the way ofbusiness, and could be charged for accordingly: "To attending at your ownhouse with relation to drawing up the rough draft of your will, andconsultation of two hours and a half thereupon;" and so on. The will wasto be executed next day; and Mr. Medler was to take his clerk with him toQueen Anne's Court, to act as one of the witnesses. He had obtained oneother triumph in the course of the discussion, which was the insertion ofhis own name as executor in place of Gilbert Fenton, against whom heraised so many specious arguments as to shake the old man's faith inMarian's jilted lover.

Percival Nowell dropped in upon his father that night, and smoked hiscigar in the dingy little parlour, which was so crowded with divers kindsof merchandise as to be scarcely habitable. The old man's son came herealmost every evening, and behaved altogether in a very dutiful way. JacobNowell seemed to tolerate rather than to invite his visits, and theadventurer tried in vain to get at the real feelings underlying thatemotionless manner.

"I think I might work round the governor if I had time," this dutiful sonsaid to himself, as he reflected upon the aspect of affairs in QueenAnne's Court; "but I fancy the old chap has taken his ticket for the nextworld--booked through--per express train, and the chances are that he'llkeep his word and not leave me sixpence. Rather hard lines that, after mytaking the trouble to come over here and hunt him up."

There was one fact that Mr. Nowell the younger seemed inclined to ignorein the course of these reflections; and that was the fact that he had notleft America until he had completely used up that country as a field forcommercial enterprise, and had indeed made his name so far notorious inconnection with numerous shady transactions as to leave no course open tohim except a speedy departure. Since his coming to England he had livedentirely on credit; and, beyond the fine clothes he wore and the contentsof his two portmanteaus, he possessed nothing in the world. It was quitetrue that he had done very well in New York; but his well-being had beensecured at the cost of other people; and after having started somehalf-dozen speculations, and living extravagantly upon the funds of hisvictims, he was now as poor as he had been when he left Belgium forAmerica, the commission-agent of a house in the iron trade. In thisposition he might have prospered in a moderate way, and might haveprofited by the expensive education which had given him nothing but showyagreeable manners, had he been capable of steadiness and industry. But ofthese virtues he was utterly deficient, possessing instead a genius forthat kind of swindling which keeps just upon the safe side of felony. Hehad lived pleasantly enough, for many years, by the exercise of thisagreeable talent; so pleasantly indeed that he had troubled himself verylittle about his chances of inheriting his father's savings. It was onlywhen he had exhausted all expedients for making money on "the other side"that he turned his thoughts in the direction of Queen Anne's Court, andbegan to speculate upon the probability of Jacob Nowell's good gracesbeing worth the trouble of cultivation. The prospectuses which he hadshown his father were mere waste paper, the useless surplus stationeryremaining from a scheme that had failed to enlist the sympathies of aTransatlantic public. But he fancied that his only chance with the oldman lay in an assumption of prosperity; so he carried matters with a highhand throughout the business, and swaggered in the little dusky parlourbehind the shop just as he had swaggered on New-York Broadway or atDelmonico's in the heyday of his commercial success.

He called at Mr. Medler's office the day after Jacob Nowell's will hadbeen executed, having had no hint of the fact from his father. Thesolicitor told him what had been done, and how the most strenuous effortson his part had only resulted in the insertion of Percival's name afterthat of his daughter.

Whatever indignation Mr. Nowell may have felt at the fact that hisdaughter had been preferred before him, he contrived to keep hidden inhis own mind. The lawyer was surprised at the quiet gravity with which hereceived the intelligence. He listened to Mr. Medler's statement of thecase with the calmest air of deliberation, seemed indeed to be thinkingso deeply that it was as if his thoughts had wandered away from thesubject in hand to some theme which allowed of more profound speculation.

"And if she should die childless, I should get all the free-holdproperty?" he said at last, waking up suddenly from that state ofabstraction, and turning his thoughtful face upon the lawyer.

"Yes; all the real estate would be yours."

"Have you any notion what the property is worth?"

"Not an exact notion. Your father gave me a list of investments.Altogether, I should fancy, the income will be somethinghandsome--between two and three thousand a year, perhaps. Strange, isn'tit, for a man with all that money to have lived such a life as yourfather's?"

"Strange indeed," Percival Nowell cried with a sneer. "And my daughterwill step into two or three thousand a year," he went on: "very pleasantfor her, and for her husband into the bargain. Of course I'm not going tosay that I wouldn't rather have had the income myself. You'd scarcelyswallow that, as a man of the world, you see, Medler. But the girl is myonly child, and though circumstances have divided us for the greater partof our lives, blood is thicker than water; and in short, since there wasno getting the governor to do the right thing, and leave this money tome, it's the next best thing that he should leave it to Marian."

"To say nothing of the possibility of her dying without children, andyour coming into the property after all," said Mr. Medler, wondering alittle at Mr. Nowell's philosophical manner of looking at the question.

"Sir," exclaimed Percival indignantly, "do you imagine me capable ofspeculating upon the untimely death of my only child?"

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders doubtfully. In the course of his variedexperience he had found men and women capable of very queer things whentheir pecuniary interests were at stake; and he had not a most exaltedopinion of Mr. Nowell's virtue--he knew too many secrets connected withhis early career.

"Remember, if ever by any strange chance you should come into thisproperty, you have me to thank for getting your name into the will, andfor giving your daughter only a life interest. She would have had everypenny left to her without reserve, if I hadn't fought for your interestsas hard as ever I fought for anything in the whole course of myprofessional career."

"You're a good fellow, Medler; and if ever fortune should favour me,which hardly seems on the cards, I sha'n't forget what I promised you theother day. I daresay you did the best you could for me, though it doesn'tamount to much when it's done."

Long after Percival Nowell had left him, Mr. Medler sat idle at his deskmeditating upon his interview with that gentleman.

"I can't half understand his coolness," he said to himself; "I expectedhim to be as savage as a bear when he found that the old man had left himnothing. I thought I should hear nothing but execrations and blasphemies;for I think I know my gentleman pretty well of old, and that he's not aperson to take a disappointment of this kind very sweetly. There must besomething under that quiet manner of his. Perhaps he knows more about hisdaughter than he cares to let out; knows that she is sickly, and that hestands a good chance of surviving her."

There was indeed a lurking desperation under Percival Nowell's airymanner, of which the people amongst whom he lived had no suspicion.Unless some sudden turn in the wheel of fortune should change the aspectof affairs for him very soon, ruin, most complete and utter, wasinevitable. A man cannot go on very long without money; and in order topay his hotel-bill Mr. Nowell had been obliged to raise the funds from anaccommodating gentleman with whom he had done business in years gone by,and who was very familiar with his own and his father's autograph. Thebill upon which this gentleman advanced the money in question bore thename of Jacob Nowell, and was drawn at three months. Percival hadpersuaded himself that before the three months were out his father wouldbe in his grave, and his executors would scarcely be in a position todispute the genuineness of the signature. In the meantime the money thusobtained enabled him to float on. He paid his hotel-bill, and removed tolodgings in one of the narrow streets to the north-east of TottenhamCourt Road; an obscure lodging enough, where he had a couple ofcomfortable rooms on the first floor, and where his going out and comingin attracted little notice. Here, as at the hotel, he chose to assume thename of Norton instead of his legitimate cognomen.

CHAPTER XIX.

GILBERT ASKS A QUESTION.

Gilbert Fenton called at John Saltram's chambers within a day or two ofhis return from Hampshire. He had a strange, almost feverish eagerness tosee his old friend again; a sense of having wronged him for that onebrief moment of thought in which the possibility of his guilt had flashedacross his mind; and with this feeling there was mingled a suspicion thatJohn Saltram had not acted quite fairly to him; that he had kept backknowledge which must have come to him as an intimate ally of Sir DavidForster.

He found Mr. Saltram at home in the familiar untidy room, with the oldchaos of books and papers about him. He looked tired and ill, and rose togreet his visitor with a weary air, as if nothing in the world possessedmuch interest for him now-a-days.

"Why, John, you are as pallid as a ghost!" Gilbert exclaimed, graspingthe hand extended to him, and thinking of that one moment in which he hadfancied he was never to touch that hand again. "You have been at the oldwork, I suppose--overdoing it, as usual!"

"No, I have been working very little for these last few days. The truthis, I have not been able to work. The divine afflatus wouldn't come downupon me. There are times when a man's brain seems to be made of meltedbutter. Mine has been like that for the last week or so."

"I thought you were going back to your fishing village near Oxford."

"No, I was not in spirits for that. I have dined two or three times inCavendish Square, and have been made much of, and have contrived toforget my troubles for a few hours."

"You talk of your troubles as if you were very heavily burdened; andyet, for the life of me, I cannot see what you have to complain of,"Gilbert said wonderingly.

"Of course not. That is always the case with one's friends--even the bestof them. It's only the man who wears the shoe that knows why it pinchesand galls him. But what have you been doing since I saw you last?"

"I have been in Hampshire."

"Indeed!" said John Saltram, looking him full in the face. "And what tookyou into that quarter of the world?"

"I thought you took more interest in my affairs than to have to ask thatquestion. I went to look for Marian Holbrook,--and I found her."

"Poor old fellow!" Mr. Saltram said gently. "And was there anysatisfaction for you in the meeting?"

"Yes, and no. There was a kind of mournful pleasure in seeing the dearface once more."

"She must have been surprised to see you."

"She was, no doubt, surprised--unpleasantly, perhaps; but she received mevery kindly, and was perfectly frank upon every subject except herhusband. She would tell me nothing about him--neither his position in theworld, nor his profession, if he has one, as I suppose he has. She ownedhe was not rich, and that is about all she said of him. Poor girl, I donot think she is happy!"

"What ground have you for such an idea?"

"Her face, which told me a great deal more than her words. Her beauty isvery much faded since the summer evening when I first saw her in LidfordChurch. She seems to lead a lonely life in the old farm-house to whichher husband brought her immediately after their marriage--a life whichfew women would care to lead. And now, John, I want to know how it is youhave kept back the truth from me in this matter; that you have treated mewith a reserve which I had no right to expect from a friend."

"What have I kept from you"

"Your knowledge of this man Holbrook."

"What makes you suppose that I have any knowledge of him?"

"The fact that he is a friend of Sir David Forster's. The house in whichI found Marian belongs to Sir David, and was lent by him to Mr.Holbrook."

"I do not know every friend of Forster's. He is a man who picks up hisacquaintance in the highways and byways, and drops them when he is tiredof them."

"Will you tell me, on your honour, that you know nothing of this Mr.Holbrook?"

"Certainly."

Gilbert Fenton gave a weary sigh, and then seated himself silentlyopposite Mr. Saltram. He could not afford to doubt this friend of his.The whole fabric of his life must have dropped to pieces if John Saltramhad played him false. His single venture as a lover having ended inshipwreck, he seemed to have nothing left him but friendship; and thatkind of hero-worship which had made his friend always appear to himsomething better than he really was, had grown stronger with him sinceMarian's desertion.

"O Jack," he said presently, "I could bear anything in this world betterthan the notion that you could betray me--that you could break faith withme for the sake of another man."

"I am not likely to do that. There is no man upon, this earth I care forvery much except you. I am not a man prone to friendship. In fact, I am aselfish worthless fellow at the best, Gilbert, and hardly merit yourserious consideration. It would be wiser of you to think of me as Ireally am, and to think very little of me."

"You did not show yourself remarkably selfish when you nursed me throughthat fever, at the hazard of your own life."

"Pshaw! that was nothing. I could not have done less in the position inwhich we two were. Such sacrifices as those count for very little. It iswhen a man's own happiness is in the scale that the black spot showsitself. I tell you, Gilbert, I am not worth your friendship. It would bebetter for you to go your own way, and have nothing more to do with me."

Mr. Saltram had said this kind of thing very often in the past, so thatthe words had no especial significance to Gilbert. He only thought thathis friend was in one of those gloomy moods which were common to him attimes.

"I could not do without your friendship, Jack," he said. "Remember howbarren the world is to me now. I have nothing left but that."

"A poor substitute for better things, Gilbert. I am never likely to bemuch good to you or to myself. By the way, have you seen anything latelyof that old man you told me about--Miss Nowell's grandfather?"

"I saw him the other night. He is very ill--dying, I believe. I havewritten to Marian to tell her that if she does not come very quickly tosee him, there is a chance of her not finding him alive."

"And she will come of course."

"I suppose so. She talked of waiting for her husband's consent; but shewill scarcely do that when she knows her grandfather's precarious state.I shall go to Queen Anne's Court after I leave you, to ascertain if therehas been any letter from her to announce her coming. She is a completestranger in London, and may be embarrassed if she arrives at the stationalone. But I should imagine her husband would meet her there supposinghim to be in town."

Mr. Fenton stayed with his friend about an hour after this; but JohnSaltram was not in a communicative mood to-night, and the talk laggedwearily. It was almost a relief to Gilbert when they had bidden eachother good-night, and he was out in the noisy streets once more, makinghis way towards Queen Anne's Court.

CHAPTER XX.

DRIFTING AWAY.

Gilbert Fenton found Jacob Nowell worse; so much worse, that he had beenobliged to take to his bed, and was lying in a dull shabby room upstairs,faintly lighted by one tallow candle on the mantelpiece. Marian was therewhen Gilbert went in. She had arrived a couple of hours before, and hadtaken her place at once by the sick-bed. Her bonnet and shawl were throwncarelessly upon a dilapidated couch by the window. Gilbert fancied shelooked like a ministering angel as she sat by the bed, her soft brownhair falling loosely round the lovely face, her countenance almost divinein its expression of tenderness and pity.

"You came to town alone, Marian?" he asked in a low voice.

The old man was in a doze at this moment, lying with his pinched witheredface turned towards his granddaughter, his feeble hand in hers.

"Yes, I came alone. My husband had not come back, and I would not delayany longer after receiving your letter. I am very glad I came. My poorgrandfather seemed so pleased to see me. He was wandering a little when Ifirst came in, but brightened wonderfully afterwards, and quiteunderstood who I was."

The old man awoke presently. He was in a semi-delirious state, but seemedto know his granddaughter, and clung to her, calling her by name withsenile fondness. His mind wandered back to the past, and he talked to hisson as if he had been in the room, reproaching him for his extravagance,his college debts, which had been the ruin of his careful hard-workingfather. At another moment he fancied that his wife was still alive, andspoke to her, telling her that their grandchild had been christened afterher, and that she was to love the girl. And then the delirium left himfor a time, his mind grew clearer, and he talked quite rationally in hislow feeble way.

"Is that Mr. Fenton?" he asked; "the room's so dark, I can't see verywell. She has come to me, you see. She's a good girl. Her eyes are likemy wife's. Yes, she's a good girl. It seems a hard thing that I shouldhave lived all these years without knowing her; lived alone, with no oneabout me but those that were on the watch for my money, and eager tocheat me at every turn. My life might have been happier if I'd had agrandchild to keep me company, and I might have left this place and livedlike a gentleman for her sake. But that's all past and gone. You'll berich when I'm dead, Marian; yes, what most people would count rich. Youwon't squander the money, will you, my dear, as your father would, if itwere left to him?"

"No, grandfather. But tell me about my father. Is he still living?" thegirl asked eagerly.

"Never mind him, child," answered Jacob Nowell. "He hasn't troubledhimself about you, and you can't do better than keep clear of him. Nogood ever came of anything he did yet, and no good ever will come. Don'tyou have anything to do with him, Marian. He'll try to get all your moneyaway from you, if you give him a chance--depend upon that."

"He is living, then? O, my dear grandfather, do tell me something moreabout him. Remember that whatever his errors may have been, he is myfather--the only relation I have in the world except yourself."

"His whole life has been one long error," answered Jacob Nowell. "I tellyou, child, the less you know of him the better."

He was not to be moved from this, and would say no more about his son, inspite of Marian's earnest pleading. The doctor came in presently, for thesecond time that evening, and forbade his patient's talking any more. Hetold Gilbert, as he left the house, that the old man's life was now onlya question of so many days or so many hours.

The old woman who did all the work of Jacob Nowell's establishment--adilapidated-looking widow, whom nobody in that quarter ever remembered inany other condition than that of widowhood--had prepared a small bedroomat the back of the house for Marian; a room in which Percival had sleptin his early boyhood, and where the daughter found faint traces of herfather's life. Mr. Macready as Othello, in a spangled tunic, with vest ofactual satin let into the picture, after the pre-Raphaelite or realistictendency commonly found in such juvenile works of art, hung over thenarrow painted mantelpiece. The fond mother had had this masterpieceframed and glazed in the days when her son was still a little lad,unspoiled by University life and those splendid aspirations whichafterwards made his home hateful to him. There were some tattered booksupon a shelf by the bed--school prizes, an old Virgil, a "RobinsonCrusoe" shorn of its binding. The boy's name was written in them in ascrawling schoolboy hand; not once, but many times, after the fashion ofjuvenile bibliopoles, with primitive rhymes in Latin and English settingforth his proprietorship in the volumes. Caricatures were scribbled uponthe fly-leaves and margins of the books, the date whereof looked very oldto Marian, long before her own birth.

It was not till very late that she consented to leave the old man's sideand go to the room which had been got ready for her, to lie down for anhour. She would not hear of any longer rest though the humble widow wasquite pathetic in her entreaties that the dear young lady would try toget a good night's sleep, and would leave the care of Mr. Nowell to her,who knew his ways, poor dear gentleman, and would watch over him ascarefully as if he had been her own poor husband, who kept his bed for atwelvemonth before he died, and had to be waited on hand and foot. Mariantold this woman that she did not want rest. She had come to town onpurpose to be with her grandfather, and would stay with him as long as heneeded her care.

She did, however, consent to go to her room for a little in the earlyNovember dawn, when Jacob Nowell had fallen into a profound sleep; butwhen she did lie down, sleep would not come to her. She could not helplistening to every sound in the opposite room--the falling of a cinder,the stealthy footfall of the watcher moving cautiously about now andthen; listening still more intently when all was silent, expecting everymoment to hear herself summoned suddenly. The sick-room and the darkshadow of coming death brought back the thought of that bitter time whenher uncle was lying unconscious and speechless in the pretty room atLidford, with the wintry light shining coldly upon his stony face; whileshe sat by his pillow, watching him in hopeless silent agony, waiting forthat dread change which they had told her was the only change that couldcome to him on earth. The scene re-acted itself in her mind to-night,with all the old anguish. She shut it out at last with a great effort,and began to think of what her grandfather had said to her.

She was to be rich. She who had been a dependant upon others all her lifewas to know the security and liberty that must needs go along withwealth. She was glad of this, much more for her husband's sake than herown. She knew that the cares which had clouded their life of late, whichhad made him seem to love her less than he had loved her at first, hadtheir chief origin in want of money. What happiness it would be for herto lift this burden from his life, to give him peace and security for theyears to come! Her thoughts wandered away into the bright region ofday-dreams after this, and she fancied what their lives might be withoutthat dull sordid trouble of pecuniary embarrassments. She fancied herhusband, with all the fetters removed that had hampered his footstepshitherto, winning a name and a place in the world. It is so natural for aromantic inexperienced girl to believe that the man she loves was born toachieve greatness; and that if he misses distinction, it is from theperversity of his surroundings or from his own carelessness, never fromthe fact of his being only a very small creature after all.

It was broad daylight when Marian rose after an hour of sleeplessness andthought, and refreshed herself with the contents of the cracked water-jugupon the rickety little wash-stand. The old man was still asleep when shewent back to his room; but his breathing was more troubled than it hadbeen the night before, and the widow, who was experienced in sickness anddeath, told Marian that he would not last very long. The shopman, LukeTulliver, had come upstairs to see his master, and was hovering over thebed with a ghoulish aspect. This young man looked very sharply at Marianas she came into the room--seemed indeed hardly able to take his eyesfrom her face--and there was not much favour in his look. He knew who shewas, and had been told how kindly the old man had taken to her in thoselast moments of his life; and he hated her with all his heart and soul,having devoted all the force of his mind for the last ten years to thecultivation of his employer's good graces, hoping that Mr. Nowell, havingno one else to whom to leave his money, would end by leaving it all tohim. And here was a granddaughter, sprung from goodness knows where, tocheat him out of all his chances. He had always suspected Gilbert Fentonof being a dangerous sort of person, and it was no doubt he who hadbrought about this introduction, to the annihilation of Mr. Tulliver'shopes. This young man took his place in a vacant chair by the fire, as ifdetermined to stop; while Marian seated herself quietly by the sleeper'spillow, thinking only of that one occupant of the room, and supposingthat Mr. Tulliver's presence was a mark of fidelity.

The old man woke with a start presently, and looked about him in a slowbewildered way for some moments.

"Who's that?" he asked presently, pointing to the figure by the hearth.

"Don't send me away, sir," Mr. Tulliver pleaded in a piteous tone. "Idon't deserve to be sent away like a stranger, after serving youfaithfully for the last ten years----"

"And being well paid for your services," gasped the old man. "I tell youI don't want you. Go downstairs and mind the shop."

"It's not open yet, sir," remonstrated Mr. Tulliver.

"Then it ought to be. I'll have no idling and shirking because I'm ill.Go down and take down the shutters directly. Let the business go on justas if I was there to watch it."

"I'm going, sir," whimpered the young man; "but it does seem rather apoor return after having served you as I have, and loved you as if you'dbeen my own father."

"Very much men love their fathers now-a-days! I didn't ask you to loveme, did I? or hire you for that, or pay you for it? Pshaw, man, I knowyou. You wanted my money like the rest of them, and I didn't mind yourthinking there was a chance of your getting it. I've rather encouragedthe notion at odd times. It made you a better servant, and kept youhonest. But now that I'm dying, I can afford to tell the truth. Thisyoung lady will have all my money, every sixpence of it, exceptfive-and-twenty pounds to Mrs. Mitchin yonder. And now you can go. You'dhave got something perhaps in a small way, if you'd been less of a sneakand a listener; but you've played your cards a trifle too well."

The old man had raised himself up in his bed, and rallied considerablywhile he made this speech. He seemed to take a malicious pleasure in hisshopman's disappointment. But when Luke Tulliver had slowly withdrawnfrom the room, with a last venomous look at Marian, Jacob Nowell sankback upon his pillow exhausted by his unwonted animation.

"You don't know what a deep schemer that young man has been, Marian," hesaid, "and how I have laughed in my sleeve at his manoeuvres."

The dull November day dragged itself slowly through, Marian never leavingher post by the sick-bed. Jacob Nowell spent those slow hours in fitfulsleep and frequent intervals of wakefulness, in which he would talk toMarian, however she might urge him to remember the doctor's injunctionsthat he should be kept perfectly quiet. It seemed indeed to matter verylittle whether he obeyed the doctor or not, since the end was inevitable.

One of the curates of the parish came in the course of the day, and readand prayed beside the old man's bed, Jacob Nowell joining in the prayersin a half-mechanical way. For many years of his life he had neglected allreligious duties. It was years since he had been inside a church; perhapshe had not been once since the death of his wife, who had persuaded himto go with her sometimes to the evening service, when he had generallyscandalised her by falling asleep during the delivery of the sermon. Allthat the curate told him now about the necessity that he should make hispeace with his God, and prepare himself for a world to come, had afar-off sound to him. He thought more about the silver downstairs, andwhat it was likely to realize in the auction-room. Even in this supremehour his conscience did not trouble him much about the doubtful modes bywhich some of the plate he had dealt in had reached his hands. If he hadnot bought the things, some other dealer would have bought them. That isthe easy-going way in which he would have argued the question, had hebeen called upon to argue it at all.

Mr. Fenton came in the evening to see the old man, and stood for a littletime by the bedside watching him as he slept, and talking in a low voiceto Marian. He asked her how long she was going to remain in Queen Anne'sCourt, and found her ideas very vague upon that subject.

"If the end is so near as the doctor says, it would be cruel to leave mygrandfather till all is over," she said.

"I wonder that your husband has not come to you, if he is in London,"Gilbert remarked to her presently. He found himself very often wonderingabout her husband's proceedings, in no indulgent mood.

"He may not be in London," she answered, seeming a little vexed by theobservation. "I am quite sure that he will do whatever is best."

"But if he should not come to you, and if your grandfather should diewhile you are alone here, I trust you will send for me and let me giveyou any help you may require. You can scarcely stay in this house afterthe poor old man's death."

"I shall go back to Hampshire immediately; if I am not wanted here foranything--to make arrangements for the funeral. O, how hard it seems tospeak of that while he is still living!"

"You need give yourself no trouble on that account. I will see to allthat, if there is no more proper person to do so."

"You are very good. I am anxious to go back to the Grange as quickly aspossible."

Gilbert left soon after this. He felt that his presence was of no use inthe sick-room, and that he had no right to intrude upon Marian at such atime.

CHAPTER XXI.

FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

Almost immediately after Gilbert's departure, another visitor appeared inthe dimly lighted shop, where Luke Tulliver was poring over a newspaperat one end of the counter under a solitary gas-burner.

The new-comer was Percival Nowell, who had not been to the house sincehis daughter's arrival.

"Well," said this gentleman, in his usual off-hand manner, "how's thegovernor?"

"Very ill; going fast, the doctor says."

"Eh? As bad as that? Then there's been a change since I was here last."

"Yes; Mr. Nowell was taken much worse yesterday morning. He had a kind offit, I fancy, and couldn't get his speech for some time afterwards. Buthe got over that, and has talked well enough since then," Mr. Tulliverconcluded ruefully, remembering his master's candid remarks that morning.

"I'll step upstairs and have a look at the old gentleman," said Percival.

"There's a young lady with him," Mr. Tulliver remarked, in a somewhatmysterious tone.

"A young lady!" the other cried. "What young lady?"

"His granddaughter."

"Indeed!"

"Yes; she came up from the country yesterday evening, and she's beensitting with him ever since. He seems to have taken to her very much.You'd think she'd been about him all her life; and she's to have all hismoney, he says. I wonder what his only son will say to that," added Mr.Tulliver, looking very curiously at Percival Nowell, "supposing him to bealive? Rather hard upon him, isn't it?"

"Uncommonly," the other answered coolly. He saw that the shopmansuspected his identity, though he had carefully avoided all reference tothe relationship between himself and the old man in Luke Tulliver'spresence, and had begged his father to say nothing about him.

"I should like to see this young lady before I go up to Mr. Nowell'sroom," he said presently. "Will you step upstairs and ask her to comedown to me?"

"I can go if you wish, but I don't suppose she'll leave the oldgentleman."

"Never mind what you suppose. Tell her that I wish to say a few words toher upon particular business."

Luke Tulliver departed upon his errand, while Percival Nowell went intothe parlour, and seated himself before the dull neglected fire in thelumbering old arm-chair in which his father had sat through the longlonely evenings for so many years. Mr. Nowell the younger was notdisturbed by any sentimental reflections upon this subject, however; hewas thinking of his father's will, and the wrong which was inflicted uponhim thereby.

"To be cheated out of every sixpence by my own flesh and blood!" hemuttered to himself. "That seems too much for any man to bear."

The door was opened by a gentle hand presently, and Marian came into theroom. Percival Nowell rose from his seat hastily and stood facing her,surprised by her beauty and an indefinable likeness which she bore to hermother--a likeness which brought his dead wife's face back to his mindwith a sudden pang. He had loved her after his own fashion once upon atime, and had grown weary of her and neglected her after the death ofthat short-lived selfish passion; but something, some faint touch of theold feeling, stirred his heart as he looked at his daughter to-night. Theemotion was as brief as the breath of a passing wind. In the next momenthe was thinking of his father's money, and how this girl had emerged fromobscurity to rob him of it.

"You wish to speak to me on business, I am told," she said, in her clearlow voice, wondering at the stranger's silence and deliberate scrutiny ofher face.

"Yes, I have to speak to you on very serious business, Marian," heanswered gravely.

"You are an utter stranger to me, and yet call me by my Christian name."

"I am not an utter stranger to you. Look at me, Mrs. Holbrook. Have younever seen my face before?"

"Never."

"Are you quite sure of that? Look a little longer before you answeragain."

"Yes!" she cried suddenly, after a long pause. "You are my father!"

There had come back upon her, in a rapid flash of memory, the picture ofa room in Brussels--a room lighted dimly by two wax-candles on thechimney-piece, where there was a tall dark man who snatched her up in hisarms and kissed her before he went out. She remembered caring very littlefor his kisses, and having a childish consciousness of the fact that itwas he who made her mamma cry so often in the quiet lonely evenings, whenthe mother and child were together in that desolate continental lodging.

Yet at this moment she was scarcely disposed to think much about herfather's ill-conduct. She considered only that he was her father, andthat they had found each other after long years of separation. Shestretched out her arms, and would have fallen upon his breast; butsomething in his manner repelled her, something downcast and nervous,which had a chilling effect upon her, and gave her time to remember howlittle cause she had to love him. He did not seem aware of theaffectionate impulse which had moved her towards him at first. He gaveher his hand presently. It was deadly cold, and lay loosely in her own.

"I was asking my grandfather about you this morning," she said, wonderingat his strange manner, "but he would not tell me where you were."

"Indeed! I am surprised to find you felt so much interest in me; I'maware that I don't deserve as much. Yet I could plead plenty of excusesfor my life, if I cared to trouble you with them; but I don't. It wouldbe a long story; and when it was told, you might not believe it. Most menare, more or less, the slave of circumstances. I have suffered that kindof bondage all my life. I have known, too, that you were in goodhands--better off in every way than you could have been in my care--or Ishould have acted differently in relation to you."

"There is no occasion to speak of the past," Marian replied gravely."Providence was very good to me; but I know my poor mother's last dayswere full of sorrow. I cannot tell how far it might have been in yourpower to prevent that. It is not my place to blame, or even to questionyour conduct."

"You are an uncommonly dutiful daughter," Mr. Nowell exclaimed withrather a bitter laugh; "I thought that you would have repudiated mealtogether perhaps; would have taken your tone from my father, who hasgrown pig-headed with old age, and cannot forgive me for having had theaspirations of a gentleman."

"It is a pity there should not be union between my grandfather and you atsuch a moment as this," Marian said.

"O, we are civil enough to each other. I bear no malice against the oldman, though many sons in my position might consider themselves hardlyused. And now I may as well go upstairs and pay my respects. Why is notyour husband with you, by the bye?"

"He is not wanted here; and I do not even know that he is in London."

"Humph! He seems rather a mysterious sort of person, this husband ofyours."

Marian took no notice of this remark, and the father and daughter wentupstairs to the sick-room together. The old silversmith received his sonwith obvious coolness, and was evidently displeased at seeing Marian andher father together.

Percival Nowell, however, on his part, appeared to be in an unusuallyaffectionate and dutiful mood this evening. He held his place by thebedside resolutely, and insisted on sharing Marian's watch that night. Soall through the long night those two sat together, while the old manpassed from uneasy slumber to more uneasy wakefulness, and back totroubled sleep again, his breathing growing heavier and more labouredwith every hour. They were very quiet, and could have found but little tosay to each other, had there been no reason for their silence. That firstbrief impulsive feeling of affection past, Marian could only think ofthis newly-found father as the man who had made her mother's life lonelyand wretched while he pursued his own selfish pleasures; and who hadallowed her to grow to womanhood without having been the object of onethought or care upon his part. She could not forget these things, as shesat opposite to him in the awful silence of the sick-room, stealing aglance at his face now and then, and wondering at the strange turn offortune which had brought them thus together.

It was not a pleasant face by any means--not a countenance to inspirelove or confidence. Handsome still, but with a faded look, like a facethat had grown pallid and wrinkled in the feverish atmosphere of vicioushaunts--under the flaring gas that glares down upon the green cloth of arouge-et-noir table, in the tumult of crowded race-courses, the press andconfusion of the betting-ring--it was the face of a battered _roue_, whohad lived his life, and outlived the smiles of fortune; the face of a manto whom honest thoughts and hopes had long been unknown. There was adisappointed peevish look about the drooping corners of the mouth, anangry glitter in the eyes.

He did not look at his daughter very often as they sat together throughthat weary vigil, but kept his eyes for the greater part of the time uponthe wasted face on the pillow, which looked like a parchment mask in thedim light. He seemed to be deep in thought, and several times in thenight Marian heard him breathe an impatient sigh, as if his thoughts werenot pleasant to him. More than once he rose from his chair and paced theroom softly for a little time, as if the restlessness of his mind hadmade that forced quiet unendurable. The early morning light came at last,faint and wan and gray, across a forest of blackened chimney-pots, and bythat light the watchers could see that Jacob Nowell had changed for theworse.

He lingered till late that afternoon. It was growing dusk when he died,making a very peaceful end of life at the last, with his head restingupon Marian's shoulder, and his cold hand clasped in hers. His son stoodby the bed, looking down upon him at that final moment with a fixedinscrutable face. Gilbert Fenton called that evening, and heard of theold man's death from Luke Tulliver. He heard also that Mrs. Holbrookintended to sleep in Queen Anne's Court that night, and did not thereforeintrude upon her, relying upon being able to see her next morning. Heleft his card, with a few words of condolence written upon it in pencil.

Mr. Nowell was with his daughter in the little parlour behind the shopwhen Luke Tulliver gave her this card. He asked who the visitor was.

"Mr. Fenton, a gentleman I knew at Lidford in my dear uncle's lifetime.My grandfather liked him very much."

"Mr. Fenton! Yes, my father told me all about him. You were engaged tohim, and jilted him for this man you have married--very foolishly, as itseems to me; for he could certainly have given you a better position thanthat which you appear to occupy now."

"I chose for my own happiness," Marian answered quietly, "and I have onlyone subject for regret; that is, that I was compelled to act withingratitude towards a good man. But Mr. Fenton has forgiven me; haspromised to be my friend, if ever I should have need of his friendship.He has very kindly offered to take all trouble off my hands with respectto--to the arrangements for the funeral."

"He is remarkably obliging," said Percival Nowell with a sneer; "but asthe only son of the deceased, I consider myself the proper person toperform that final duty."

"I do not wish to interfere with your doing so. Of course I did not knowhow near at hand you were when Mr. Fenton made that offer, or I shouldhave told him."

"You mean to remain until the funeral is over, I suppose?"

"I think not; I want to go back to Hampshire as soon as possible--by anearly train to-morrow morning, if I can. I do not see that there is anyreason for my remaining. I could not prove my respect or affection for mygrandfather any more by staying."

"Certainly not," her father answered promptly. "I think you will be quiteright in getting away from this dingy hole as quick as you can."

"It is not for that. But I have promised to return directly I was free todo so."

"And you go back to Hampshire? To what part of Hampshire?"

Marian told him the name of the place where she was living. He wrote theaddress in his pocket-book, and was especially careful that it should becorrectly written, as to the name of the nearest town, and in all otherparticulars.

"I may have to write to you, or to come to you, perhaps," he said. "It'sas well to be prepared for the contingency."

After this Mr. Nowell sent out for a "Railway Guide," in order to givehis daughter all necessary information about the trains for Malsham.There was a tolerably fast train that left Waterloo at seven in themorning, and Marian decided upon going by that. She had to spend theevening alone with her father while Mrs. Mitchin kept watch in thedismal chamber upstairs. Mr. Nowell asked his daughter's permission tolight his cigar, and having obtained it, sat smoking moodily all theevening, staring into the fire, and very rarely addressing his companion,who had taken a Bible out of her travelling-bag, and was reading thosesolemn, chapters which best harmonised with her feelings at this moment;thinking as she read of the time when her guardian and benefactor lay inhis last calm rest, and she had vainly tried to find comfort in the samewords, and had found herself staring blankly at the sacred page, witheyes that were dry and burning, and to which there came no mercifulrelief from tears.

Her father glanced at her askance now and then from his arm-chair by thefire, as she sat by the little round table looking down at her book, thelight of the candles shining full upon her pensive face. He looked at herwith no friendliness in his eyes, but with that angry sparkle which hadgrown almost habitual to them of late, since the world had gone ill withhim. After one of those brief stolen looks, a strange smile crept overhis face. He was thinking of a little speech of Shakespeare's Richardabout his nephew, the youthful Prince of Wales:

So young, so wise, they say do ne'er live long.

"How pious she is!" he said to himself with a diabolical sneer. "Did thehalf-pay Captain teach her that, I wonder? or does church-going, andpsalm-singing, and Bible-reading come natural to all women? I know mymother was good at it, and my wife too. She used to fly to her Bible as aman flies to dram-drinking, or his pipe, when things go wrong."

He got tired of his cigar at last, and went out into the shop, where hebegan to question Mr. Tulliver as to the extent and value of thestock-in-trade, and upon other details of the business; to all of whichinquiries the shopman replied in a suspicious and grudging spirit, givinghis questioner the smallest possible amount of information.

"You're an uncommonly cautious young man," Mr. Nowell exclaimed at last."You'll never stand in your own light by being too anxious to obligeother people. I daresay, though, you could speak fast enough, if it wasmade worth your while."

"I don't see what is to make it worth my while," Luke Tulliver answeredcoolly. "My duty is to my dead master, and those that are to come afterhim. I don't want strangers coming sniffing and prying into the stock.Mr. Nowell's books were kept so that I couldn't cheat him out of asixpence, or the value of a sixpence; and I mean to hand 'em over to thelawyer in a manner that will do me credit. My master has not been agenerous master to me, considering how I've served him, and I've gotnothing but my character to look to; but that I have got, and I don'twant it tampered with."

"Who is going to tamper with it?" said Mr. Nowell. "So you'll hand overthe stock-books to the lawyer, will you, without a leaf missing, or anerasure, or an item marked off as sold that never was sold, or any littledodges of that kind, eh, Mr. Tulliver?"

"Of course," answered the shopman, looking defiantly at the questioner,